


Drive You Home

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-28
Updated: 2001-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-01 05:33:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/352538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home is all sorts of places. First of the Beautiful Garbage vignettes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drive You Home

## Drive You Home

by Brighid

[]()

* * *

Drive You Home 

He's got a sweet, sweet mouth. Noticed that the first time I met him. It's still sweet, even when it's set and stubborn and not taking "no" for an answer. 

Like right now. 

I stick my hands deep into my pockets, and wouldn't my tailor just cry, trying to ease the tightness there. I swallow once, hard, trying to ease the tightness _there_. "C'mon, Clark. Even in the wild cornfields of Kansas, you've got to know the meaning of the term 'jailbait'." I bump my shoulders against him, look out over the water, look anywhere but at his profile. I'm trying damned hard to be noble, here, but I've never been _that_ good at resisting temptation. 

And he is more than just tempting. Wind-blown and soulful and sad and so goddamned _sincere_ that somehow he manages to break right through twenty-one years of conditioning. He makes my fingers itch. My heart hurt. He makes me more naked than losing my hair ever did. Even now, I can feel it when he tilts his head, looks down at me through those long, long lashes of his. His eyes are blue-grey like the winter water beneath us, but far, far warmer. I can _feel_ them on me, moving through me, like he's got x-ray vision. 

Hell, here in Smallville, maybe he does. 

When he looks at me like that, all serious and searching, I get the uncomfortable feeling he sees damn near everything I want to hide. Not the Luthor skeletons, not the closed files and the burned photos but -- me. The insecurities, the loneliness, the last little spark of something _real_ and _human_ I've managed to hide from my father. 

"It's not like that, Lex," he says, softly, a he's right, it's not. It's not about jailbait or right or wrong or good or evil and naughty older boys underneath the bleachers. It's not about what I want to do to that mouth, what I want it to do to me. It's about how he reaches inside me, how somehow, against all odds, I seem to reach into him. 

"I'm older than you, Clark. I'm, nominally at least, a grown-up, and rippling muscles aside, you aren't." I risk a look, and he's somehow smiling and frowning at me at the same time. 

"That's so stupid, Lex," he says at last, the smile winning. "Age isn't just chronology, you know? And maybe you've got a few years and some wild times in Metropolis in your favour, but ... who ever taught you about love? I might have grown up in the wild cornfields of Kansas, but I _know_ love. I think that gives _me_ the advantage here." His hand reaches out, finds mine, and he's gloveless and hatless and warm as the heart of a star. 

"It doesn't work like that, Clark," I tell him, helpless, hopeless, helplessly _hoping_ for the first time since I can remember. "Maybe it should, but it doesn't. 'Pardon me, your Honour, but I'm just some poor little rich boy looking for acceptance and the whip cream was merely innocent boyish pranking.' just won't wash in court." I smile at him, and his grin is a little wild about the edges. 

"Whip cream?" he says, and the tone of his voice unlocks my knees, sends me sagging against the mended railing. 

"Shut-UP, Clark," I groan. "Just get in the damned car so I can get you home before Ma and Pa Kent send out the state troopers." He watches me, smile fading, disappointment lurking in his eyes like dark shadows under calm waters. The mouth is still set, but he does as I ask, for the first time since he leaned over, kissed me softly as we left the theatre. 

We drive in silence the last little way, and I'm doing the _right_ thing, maybe for the one and only time in my life, and I should be proud. I know, I know that eventually my skeletons and closed files and insecurities will destroy whatever it is between us. I know that something in my nature will betray him, or he will have to betray me to follow his conscience, and it'll be hard enough to do as friends. 

It would destroy us both if we were more. 

I pull up to the far gate, for once not taking him to the door, not wanting to face his parents. Furnace-boy can walk a minute or two. He turns to me. "Actually, Lex, I think my mom kind of likes you," he says suddenly, and I have to blink a couple of times to remember the last thing said between us. 

"Yeah, but your dad is the one with the hunting rifle," I laugh, but he just shakes his head. 

"Mom's the one with all the ribbons, actually. Ladies' target shooting. That was before the Garden Club took off." He's smiling at me, inviting me in, and I can't help myself, I throw my head back against the head rest and just laugh until my sides ache. 

And then he leans in, and his mouth is spiced apples in mid-winter, warming me through to my belly. It lasts until I'm whimpering, arching up into him, and who the _hell_ is supposed to be the innocent here? 

When at last he pulls away, my mouth is swollen and I hope to hell he has the sense to go straight up to that loft of his because he looks like a blue boy magazine's cover shot. "One of these days, Lex, you've got to let me take you home," he says softly, and he's talking about things I only have the vaguest understanding of. Then he's out and halfway up the lane, and the whole damned car smells like spiced apples and Kansas farm boy and I think, I think ... 

I want to go home. 

**END**


End file.
